Fragile & Finite
by Sage Pagan
Summary: ..."For the others it was always about sex and cheap promises, then emptiness again. It wasn’t like this. A conversation. Well, an attempt at one." Compilation of one shots. Feat. Hwoarang, Julia, Anna and Christie, to list a few.
1. White Lilies

"Fragile & Finite" is a compilation of one shots. Now and then I get sudden bursts of ideas or inspiration, but don't quite have the time (or patience) to create a whole story with it.

In this first story I include some Korean and Navajo words, which should give you a clue as to who the story is about. There's a glossary at the end if you're interested. ~ _Sage_

* * *

**White Lilies**

Sometimes, he would lie awake and listen to the rain pounding on the tin roof over his head, like war drums, like the beating of his heart--like the beating of time itself.

Drip. Drip. A second a drop, an hour, a day, didn't matter.

Sometimes, he would close his eyes and let the wind stroke his skin, let it whisper away the before, the what-ifs, the regrets and the blemishes.

Sometimes, when it was dark and cool and unbearable, when no one could see his face, he'd let himself weep so that no one knew that he had broken, finally. He was supposed to be strong after all, scarlet fire, like the wild, untamable weeds that suffocated the daffodils in the front lawn.

Sometimes he'd let a girl inside—blonde, brunette, red, green, blue, black—and share a bottle of _maekju_ with her. Together they'd light their throats on fire to escape the memories. And maybe, if he felt like it and if she begged enough, he'd undress her quickly and make pretend love to her, taste her skin. He liked the power of being above her, of dictating what happened next, of feeling her legs wrapped about him, body limp in silent surrender. The taste of her honeysuckle breath filled his mouth, the sounds of her satisfaction, breathy exhalation, her body, like those poisonous daffodils outside, wilting beneath the weed. It should have been enough, but it never was. There was something missing, always missing, and he always pulled away before he could feel the pleasure for himself. It was but an illusion, a false, temporary sanctuary from what actually _was_. And so he'd always let her go and send her away so he could wipe her memory off of his body and forget all that had been done.

He did this, sometimes, when he wasn't feigning laughter and bruising his legs in bar brawls, muscles throbbing and blood singing. He did this, sometimes, while longing for Baek and his kind words; Baek, the only father he'd ever known, now lay in the _myoji_ with white lilies lying limp against the headstone. The white lilies always died quickly, and he would go out every week to the same flower shop to replace them. He wasn't one for flowers, but they were white, like Baek's _dobok_, white, like kindness and regret, like the plaster paint on his walls. _Hayan saek_, white, like the clouds in his mind. Their sweet fragrance made his head spin; their orange pollen stained his fingertips. He couldn't bear to see that beauty wilt, would not accept their death.

He wanted to be sweet like those lilies, fragile. Maybe he could learn to appreciate flowers. Maybe he'd find a real girl this time, maybe Baek wasn't really dead, maybe he'd…maybe.

Always maybe.

Seoul smelled good tonight, like old paint and exhaust fumes. The same old prostitutes, long legs sheathed in fishnets and eyes painted fuchsia, prowled the streets seeking easy change. He smirked, pitying them and their weakness, their desperation, their coy smiles and lack of self-worth. They were worse than the lonely women who came to see him at night. His eyes shifted to the blinking billboard signs: red, gold, blue, magenta, green. Things unheard of, things never seen. "Seoul's best noodles and hottest girls" they sometimes boasted, other times flashing gaudy ads of the newest car models. He wasn't sure, and he didn't care.

Signs were insignificant for he was already lost.

The club music throbbed in his veins, and the hummingbird iridescence of the lights blurred his vision. The low moans of car motors sped down the freeway, evading the police, fleeing their troubles, away, away, away, and the stench of _pulkogi_ and grease made him dizzy, so he shut the windows and turned off the lights. Too much, too much, too much.

There was a time when he could have handled it, a time when he'd owned Seoul's streets with his gang, earning easy money with his legs and his lies. The blood had shown bright as the _yŏmnyo_ in his hair. Victory had tasted sweeter than the alcohol. The fighting spirit had made him feel invincible.

He shut his eyes, remembering. Forgetting. Those times were long gone.

When the sun went down the girls came back for his body and his knowing hands, and he'd give them what they wanted, legs tangled in the sheets, sweat on skin and that bitter taste in his mouth again. It wasn't as enjoyable as it used to be, but he needed them as much as they needed him: he made them feel alive, and they made him feel wanted, even if it was only for a brief night of loveless lovemaking.

"Run away with me, baby. I adore you," they'd all said, "take me on that bike of yours. I've been dyin' for a ride."

And he'd laugh and show them the door because he'd grown immune to lies and temptation. In the end he didn't need them that much; they weren't real after all. Alone, that was what he was, that's how he preferred it. The world wasn't worth knowing him, and he wasn't worth knowing the world.

A name, a dead hope, an extinguished flame, that's all he was now. Hwoarang. Hwoarang. Hwoarang.

When he felt like it he'd take out the dusty punching bag and pummel it for a few hours for vanity's sake, but more so to remind himself that he was still strong and capable of rage. Then, breathless, he'd stand in the freezing water of the shower, _maekju_ in hand, and open the windows to let the polluted wind wipe away the wetness on his skin. He'd flex his muscles, as if to show off to an imaginary female admirer, then laugh because nobody was ever there anyway. The punching bag returned to the closet, and it was rice and _kimchi_ again with extra hot sauce. The rock music was always turned up so high the old Chinese lady from next door would storm over with her high-pitched voice and broken Korean, sometimes with a little broom clutched in her tree-root hands. And he'd laugh again, wait until she'd gone, then turn the music up a couple notches until his eardrums ached.

Sometimes, his part of Seoul would get so quiet.

He didn't like the quiet. Sometimes he hummed to a tune in his head to kill the silence, or sometimes he'd talk to himself, make up conversations in his mind, conversations he'd wanted to share with Baek.

Sometimes he'd just endure and have nightmares about nothing.

He knew he'd changed. Something inside him had weakened, had been lost. A darkness laced his heart, no silver moon showed, and the sun was merely playing tricks. And he'd sigh and look at himself in the mirror, a handsome, ugly, grotesque joke of a man with fire in his hair but no fire in his heart.

Searching, always searching for something.

And then there came a knock on the door one evening. It was probably that blonde-haired Chinese girl from last night, or that small Korean widow from Pusan looking for another mindless, good fuck. Swig. Fire. The beer was good at least, he thought. He was tired of giving it to them all the time. They never gave anything in return after all, simply took and went. But he opened the door anyway and there she was: olive skin, torn blue jeans, hair pulled back into a braid—a foreigner. No stiletto heels or porcelain doll face. No sticky maroon lipstick or nicotine smile.

"You must be Hwoarang," she said, bowing slightly. Her Korean was ok; her tongue formed the words slowly but accurately, and he liked the way she smelled, like _ŭnbang-ul kkot_—lily of the valley. Sweet and fresh. Sweeter than Baek's lilies. It made his head spin.

"You're American," he stated in English, and opened the door a little wider.

"Why yes, I am," she said with a shy smile, switching to English.

"You wanna…come inside?"

"If you don't mind."

"If I minded, would I have offered?" he said, face expressionless.

She smiled again and followed him inside. He brought her a bottle of _maekju_ from the fridge and opened it for her. Thanking him, she took a small sip, winced, and he hid his smile; she wasn't accustomed to fire yet. A necklace of turquoise adorned her throat, and he wanted to kiss them and feel her shiver against him as his mouth touched her sun-bronzed skin. He desired her suddenly, this new woman, desired her unlike anything before, but he knew that she would not embrace his fire like the others had. She was more, much, much more.

Sitting across from her, he watched her drink, watched her adjust the glasses on her nose and fold her fingers across her lap. Outside, it began to rain again; monsoon season had already begun. She was his for now.

"My mother sees you a lot at the flower shop. She says you like white lilies," she began--prodded--but he stayed silent and continued to watch her, waiting.

He liked the sound of her voice, wanted to trap it and keep it for himself. He wanted to kiss her mouth and devour the words from her tongue because no one had spoken to him like this for so long. For the others it was always about sex and cheap promises, then emptiness again. It wasn't like this. A conversation. Well, an attempt at one.

He continued to stare, and she never once looked away. Her dark eyes were curious, probing, and it was he who turned away.

"Wouldn't you like to know my name?" she asked after awhile.

Shaking his head, he replied, "I always forget them anyway."

Besides, she'd probably just leave and never return, so what was the point? All the good ones ended up leaving.

He'd remember her face though, her white-lily smile and the sweet strength of her voice, the intoxicating rush of her smell. He'd remember how she'd come to him for the comfort of words rather than of the body, unlike all the other ones had done. Grimacing as the alcohol seared his throat, he did not like how he fell so easily for this stranger. He took another swig of his beer, fed the flame, tried to convince himself it was nothing, but after another gulp the ache in his chest remained.

"Keep your name a secret. It might be the only thing you have left in the end," he murmured, as if to himself. She went to him then, that curious look returning to her eyes.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked, taking the bottle from his hand and setting it on the nearby table. Her fingers reached out, touched his hair gently, but he pulled away.

"You should go," he choked, and knew that he spoke lies. He never wanted her to leave. He wanted her to hold him so he could inhale her smell, so that he could tattoo her into his memory so that he'd know that hope existed. That she'd been real. But if she didn't go now, he might start believing again, like he always did, and he didn't think he had enough _won_ for more white lilies.

A sad, small smile curved her mouth. "I've been watching you for a long time, Hwoarang."

He didn't want to look at her. He wanted to forget again. Smiling grimly, he listened to the rain.

"I know why, Hwoarang, why you buy those lilies, why you never leave this apartment," she murmured, brown eyes meeting his.

"Please go," he commanded gently, and she went this time.

Afterwards, the apartment reeked of her. He thought he would go crazy.

But every night she returned, and he let her in every time without question. The nights were less lonely with her laughter and her voice, her smile, and the day was tolerable for him because he knew she would be back once darkness devoured the gray sky. She spoke to him of little things, of forsythias and wisteria vines, of white-feathered birds and the songs of wolves, of turquoise dreams and of sun-seared forests and the smell of the desert. She spoke in paintings; he could see each word she said, could taste them, and he swallowed each picture, keeping them alive and in secret deep within himself. He listened, he laughed, he desired, he hurt. And when she left, it was only the rain and the alcohol again, but he sat and watched TV with a smile on his face, knowing she would return. He wanted to think that he loved her, because if he did then it meant that he wasn't completely lost after all.

Sometimes, he rode his motorcycle at night, envisioning her face, shouting to the sky so loudly that the neighbors cursed him in their sleep. But he didn't care. He felt like he was on fire, flames engulfing his heart, trailing up his throat, spewing out from his mouth in little drops of heat. On those nights the alcohol wasn't necessary.

And then one night, when the rain fell harder than before and when the sky moaned with thunder, she came without that smile of hers, without her words, and led him up the stairs to his room. Shutting the door and the windows, she undressed before him, her eyes never leaving his. She was lovely, flawless, smooth skin and sleek curves, and she let her dark hair hang loose. He stood still while she removed his clothes, his shirt and jeans and boxers, and trembled when her hands brushed against his skin. When she pressed herself against him, bare skin on bare skin, he sighed deeply, shivered, fearing yet wanting what was about to happen; she was so warm, so alive and real, and so he took her to his bed, giving in.

She wasn't like the others. She gave, and gave and gave, and he took the pleasure from her and felt what had been denied him all those months. His mouth and hands caressed her skin, moved across the flesh of her throat and her shoulders, her breasts and belly, down, down, in, out, in, out, seeking that secret within, that light, deeper, deeper…But she denied him full power. This time, he was the one who surrendered, and he felt her warmth close around him as he let go. She whispered his name, fingers tangled in his hair, and this time did not wince when she tasted fire. Inhaling her smell, lily of the valley, he made her his own and knew that, once again, things had changed.

He held her afterwards, watched her sleep, and thought about what had just happened. He didn't even know her name, and suddenly wanted very much to know, but he bit his lip and let her rest, his hands stroking her dark hair. Leaning in close, he inhaled her smell again, and again, and smiled to himself as she murmured in her sleep, pressing herself harder against him.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to dream.

* * *

An hour later he awakened to find the spot beside him empty. Her clothes were gone, but the imprint of her body was still on the mattress, her scent yet lingering on the air, and he closed his eyes again, knowing that she was gone. The good ones always left. Then it was a good thing he never knew her name after all. But, disgusted, in despair, he knew that he would never forget her either. He searched for that extra stash of beer he hid underneath his bed, but realized that it was gone. Enraged, he dressed hastily and headed for the kitchen. It was the beer that numbed him, that made him forget, and he needed it now.

And there she was in the kitchen, stirring freshly cooked rice, the smell of stir-fry wafting up into the air. She smiled over at him and beckoned for him to sit; a plate, bowl, chopsticks, and glass of water had already been prepared for him. Speechless, he complied, and let her ladle the hot soup into his bowl and spoon mounds of beef and rice onto his plate. She told him to eat, then set about to cleaning up the messes she'd made.

But he couldn't eat. Instead he just sat there and stared at her hurrying about the kitchen, humming a song only she heard. She halted, feeling his gaze on her back.

"Why are you still here?" he asked quietly.

"I can leave if that's what you want."

"No! I mean…no," he said, gentler now, "I was just…wondering…"

She set down the dishtowel and took a seat beside him. This time when her hand came up to caress his hair, he let her, and leaned into her touch.

"Why did you do all of this?" he whispered, "why me?"

"Why anyone?" She smiled that small smile again.

"Please. I need to know. All the women, they come for me, again and again they come for me…but none of them stay. None of them."

The woman took the spoon and dipped it into the soup. He took the spoon from her and swallowed, the hot broth soothing his throat and spreading throughout every nerve of his body, to his fingertips and to the ends of his toes. Blinking, he felt strangely rejuvenated, and ravenously slurped the soup down.

"Sometimes love doesn't need a reason," she finally replied after he'd finished. "It just…is."

"Love?"

She looked away, biting her lip, trying to find the words. But he didn't need anything else, and instead took her into his arms and held her there, kissed her mouth, felt her feather-soft sigh against his heart. She'd taken a shower, he could smell his shampoo in her hair, but she still retained some of that former scent, that lily under her skin. He smelled it now, and was reminded of Baek. The flowers must be dead. It had been a week and a half now, maybe more.

Gently disentangling himself from her, he said, "I have to go somewhere. Stay here, all right? I still have some things I want to say to you."

But she shook her head and took his hand. "I know where you're going, Hwoarang, and I'm coming with you."

"You can't. I'm sorry but…it's kind of personal where I'm going."

"I know. You're going to my mother's flower shop, and then to the cemetery."

He was silent, refused to look at her, and she pulled him to her.

"My name is Julia," she whispered against him, and he closed his eyes momentarily, held her name in his mind. Julia. She'd given him everything now. Perhaps she was a fool in giving so much, he thought, because he wasn't very good at taking care of things nowadays. But he took her name and swallowed it, kept it safe.

He took her, silently, to her mother's flower shop, to purchase yet another handful of white lilies.

It was a small shop, quaint, hidden, and squeezed between a noisy sushi bar and a Moroccan gift store. The place always smelled like a mixture of Russian sage and damp, decaying roses. He hated going inside. The moisture clung to his skin and the flawless faces of the blossoms jeered at him. The sunlight leaking in from the windows in the ceilings hurt his eyes, and the love-struck gazes of the male customers buying flowers for their lovers sickened him. He knew that only mourning people bought flowers, only the desperate lovers and the broken hearted. Nevertheless, he came to that same shop every week and suffocated on the fumes.

"How is he?" her mother asked.

Julia shrugged. "He's a broken man, I've seen many like him. But…he's different, Mother."

"How so?"

She didn't answer, merely turned away and watched Hwoarang select a bundle of lilies. His red hair seemed to disappear as he leaned in to bury his nose into their pale petals.

Michelle shook her head, muttering Navajo under her breath. "You fell in love this time, didn't you?"

"Yes," she replied guiltily, but with a small smile.

Her mother sighed, fingering the topaz beads about her neck. "We're supposed to _help _men like him, not fall in love. You know that."

"I know."

"What did you do, sleep with him?"

"_Am__á_! It's more than that!"

"So you did sleep with him."

"Oh, spirits…" she grumbled, yet did not deny Michelle's statement.

But her mother smiled in response. "Oh well. It's about time you found someone anyway."

He returned with the white lilies, about a dozen of them, and forced a tight smile to his mouth as he handed them to Julia's mother. Orange pollen dusted his nose, and she suppressed the smile as she rang up the flowers. This man had once been made of fire. Now he'd been reduced to ashes. Smiling, she handed the white lilies to him.

"I'll see you next week, Sir," she said again, like she always said, and he left quietly, like he always did.

* * *

Standing beside him, she stared down at the headstone. She couldn't read the _hangul _very well, but he pointed to his mentor's name. She asked about Baek but he shook his head. Too many things to say, he said, too many things to say and not enough time. So they stood there together in silence, the cool wind caressing their skin and spreading across the lilies, one little kiss of frost at a time.

He stood before the grave like he had done for the past year. Sighing, he was satisfied with how the lilies looked against the headstone. They shone whiter, looked slightly livelier, and he was reminded of the white _dobok_ again. He remembered the first one Baek had given him when he was seven, clean and pale as snow; the new material had chafed his skin and had hung loose about his thin arms.

_"After a couple washes it should be a good fit. You're small, but you'll grow into it. In time you'll get a new dobok anyway."_

He still had that dobok, folded neatly away somewhere in his closet beneath the jungle of belts and other uniforms, red, blue, and black. But it was there, and it still had Baek's smell in it, his words.

White means purity. White is innocence. All beginners begin White.

The lilies were white. Every week Baek was purified with their presence; every week was a new beginning. He refused to believe that it ended there, beneath the earth in a coffin, trapped beneath packed dirt and a dozen fragile lilies. No, no. The flowers had to keep coming.

She knew that he'd been sick for awhile. She knew that if she didn't do something he'd never let go. He'd torment himself with Baek's memory and these intoxicating lilies.

He stood before the grave like he had done for the past year, and remembered everything. The little things, the big things, the way things used to be, the way he wished things could have been.

_"I'm proud of you, Hwoarang. You've mastered Tae Kwon Do. You've become a man…and you have been like a son to me. I mean that. Know that I'll always be there for you. As long as you remember me I can never truly die."_

And he would always remember. It was the memories that tortured him now.

"Baek, what have you done? I can't stop remembering!" he thought to himself.

He wanted to weep, but the pain went deeper than tears, so he merely stood there. The rain came down in little needles of wetness, slowly, gently drenching his clothes, and he continued to remember. He wished he had a bottle of maekju with him. It might slow the memories some.

Grasping his hand, she reminded him that she was there too, beneath the rain and above the lilies, and his skin devoured her warmth. Heat. Love. Hope. A different kind of beginning. A different kind of lily. Closing his eyes, he remembered the nights before, of how she had made him feel, how she had chased away the remembering and the moments of cold, unbearable silence. Sighing, he recalled the sweet taste of her skin, the feel of her bare flesh against him, moving, shifting, making love to her to the beat of their hearts, talking about everything and nothing, the smell of rice and _paek'ap_, the trickle of rain, the feather-soft tangle of her fingers in his hair. Her voice, her laughter, her name.

It had only been a few weeks, but he knew that in her arms he was more than a name. She didn't see him like the other women did—a tool, a temporary escape. Rekindled was the flame in his chest. In her arms, he would be able to free himself from the despair induced by Baek's death. Hopefully. But not maybe. He was done with maybes.

"Julia…" he choked out, swallowed hard. The rain felt like tear drops on his cheeks.

She squeezed his hand firmly; the heat traveled up the length of his arm and down into the pit of his stomach. Her love was the same. He came to life again.

"It's time to let go, Hwoarang," she murmured gently, leaning her head against his shoulder.

And he swallowed hard again, buried the sorrow for good, and turned to her. Again and again he kissed her, kisses like a whisper, gossamer wings, kisses of fire and desperation, and she responded calmly yet with a hunger that matched his own. Pulling her against him, he inhaled her scent, his head spinning, buried his nose in the sleek curve of her neck, her warmth making him shiver; he inhaled some more and began to forget. To let go. He loved the way her body molded against his, how it succumbed beneath his touch; he'd always been talented in matters of touching. Yet, as before, she never surrendered completely, and retained much of that strength that had made him love her in the first place. He needed that strength. He had been seeking it ever since Baek's death.

"No more lilies," she murmured with a small smile. He smiled back.

"No, no more."

Julia took his hand and led him out of the cemetery, the soaked earth creating little puddles of gray mirrors in the footprints they left behind. The rain continued to come down, but it was a different kind of rain than before. Knowing this, Hwoarang smiled up into the gray skies and closed his eyes, no longer afraid. He would always remember Baek, but someone else had filled the hollows in his heart.

Kissing her again, he let the white lilies wilt.

* * *

**Korean Words:**

_Dobok_: Tae Kwon Do uniform

_Hangul_: Korean form of writing

_Hayan saek_: white

_Kimchi_: pickled cabbage, usually spicy; staple food along with rice

_Maekju_: beer

_Myoji_: cemetery

_Paek'ap_: lily

_Pulkogi_: marinated beef, which is then barbecued

_Ŭnbang-ul kkot_: lily of the valley

_Won_: Korean currency

_Yŏmnyo_: dye

**Navajo Words:**

_Amá_: mother


	2. New Moon

Here's my second story, and it's about Julia and her heritage. I tried my best to write from a Native American point of view; however, I'm obviously not Native American, so I apologize if some of this is off. This fic is not meant to preach or to be racist. I am simply trying to spread awareness. Most of us misunderstand and stereotype Native Americans. By writing this story, I hope to alter that, if only by a small margin. In that case, some of you may find this oneshot boring (especially compared to the angsty romance story before this one, "White Lilies"), and that's unfortunate. But, it's your opinion. I just wanted to try something different for a change.

Anyway, this story is a bit fragmented (on purpose) so if you're confused it's understandable. It's also long, not your usual short 'n' simple one-shot. **Two of the characters in this one are based on people I know**.

Disclaimer: The quotes are from Sherman Alexie's novel, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. (one of my favorite books). I also include a glossary at the end.

* * *

**New Moon**

_"Survival equals Anger x Imagination. Imagination is the only weapon on the reservation."_

_**---Formula for Life---**_

The earth hardens, bursts and cracks, a swollen blister beneath the sun. The sky breathes white clouds, whispers a Navajo prayer, smiling blue as a smooth piece of turquoise. Hawk shrieks pierce the air, echoing across the sand dunes while red mesas bleed, open wounds on Mother Earth's skin. Cacti, the resilient keepers of time, stand watch in emerald silence while the coyotes doze in their shadows. Everything has beauty if you just take the time to look hard enough, even here in one of the harshest areas on the reservation. Here, in _Hoozdo Hahoodzo_, our land, _Diné bikéyah_, where the mountains have eyes and the crimson canyons breathe fire, treacherous, tranquil, merciless beauty.

People get lost easily in these areas for the desert is never the same; each day the sun and the wind change it. Sand dunes disappear and shift shape, a little creek may become dry as buffalo hide the next evening, and new life can spring up in seemingly uninhabitable places. Come evening the _ma'ii_ and the rattlesnakes emerge to hunt. Or perhaps, like the old legends say, the skin-walkers and witches emerge too, deceitful, bloodthirsty, disguised in their wolf pelts, armed with their necklaces of animal teeth and their black magic. But for me those are just stories and superstitions to keep the little children in bed at night. Still, it is stories like that that have kept our culture alive.

I want to tell you a story now. It is the fragile fragments of pictures that make this story, mirrors of then and now, the little shards that have kept me alive.

I sit here, the dry air hanging like a wool blanket over my head, remembering, experiencing.

I sit here, thinking, and it all comes to life.

I sit here, thinking, and it all comes to life.

I sit here, thinking, and it all comes to life.

I sit here, thinking, and it all comes to life.

The stories, they come to life. The wrinkled and the smooth, the tellers and the listeners. The voices. I love it all. I love it all so much it hurts. Home. The air. The earth. The way the sun burns and caresses. I love my mother, my cousins, my elders, and my shabby room with its wrinkled Navajo blankets, its pinewood shelves bulging with novels and textbooks and dusty picture books of frayed childhood memories, of faded colors and of remnants of innocence between its pages. I love the way the laughter resounds in the canyons, the way the yucca and sagebrush smell in the heat, the way the fry bread reeks and the way Michelle's scrambled eggs makes me smile in euphoric ease.

I love the way you take the time to listen to my story, to my rambles, the way you watch me fight with these fists and feet, the way you taught me how to smile through all the storms. I love the smell of the air and the earth after rain, and of the way the drums beat violently, gently, through my veins. Pulsing like a second heart.

And I hate it all too; what Native American doesn't at one point? I hate how the sun can punish, how the hope deceives and how the alcohol prevails, even over love sometimes. I hate the yellow eyes and the loneliness, the droughts and the razorblade words, cuts deep, like gorges in the earth. I hate the white ignorance, the white hate, searing the skin and scarring the soul. I hate how you judge with your eyes and how you fight, weak and cowardly, with bullets and talks of fate, with preconceptions and a single mind. And I hate 'cause all I've got is my name. All I've got is my mother's martial arts and my tongue, my words and my mind, my hopes and my faith, my hands and my love, to conquer you, the plague that has driven us here. Strong as I am, it isn't enough to quell the anger or the pain.

But I _love_ even more. And that's all that counts really. Love is ours, hate is yours; hate and anger are easy to feel, but they can only destroy. So I'll let you do as you please for now. You're already dead. You're lost. That's why you feel the need to conquer, to kill, to judge, to lust for things that were never yours. But for me, for us, we've always been home. We love more than you.

But regardless of the flaws, I love the way you take the time to listen to my story, to my rambles. It might not make any sense, my stories, my voice…but that's life, isn't it? Life, one of the lamest clichés, one of the biggest enigmas; nothing really makes sense. There's no order, no real formula. Lots of people want to live life as one long formula. First add A, then subtract B, take the square root of A, divide by B, multiply, divide again, add two, and you've got paradise. Utopia. Order of operations will get you on the right path, will get you all the answers. Follow the right steps and you'll be fine.

And what happens when you get stuck on a problem? You followed all the rules, but you just can't seem to find the square root of A, and you failed to notice that extra number inside the parentheses. But hey, you followed all the rules, right? You studied your ass off. Yet the answer's still wrong.

_You helped the white man plant his seeds. You told him where the best game was. You shared your women, your men, your hands, your kindness, your land…yet the answer's still wrong. You were kind, you followed the rules of humanity, yet you failed to see the flaw between the parentheses. The problem isn't solved yet, even now, and never will be. _

Retract your steps. Start over. Feeling pretty stupid. Pretty foolish. Pretty angry. You start to think that maybe whoever wrote this damn formula didn't know what the hell they were doing; you begin to think that maybe kindness is overrated.

By the time you manage to find the right answer, you're ten minutes behind. Ten years behind. Ten decades.

And you sit there, clutching memories in your hand, fighting, succumbing, to the bitterness that devours your heart. The formula, it laughs in the face of misery; it comes in the color white.

Lots of people want to live life as one long formula…

We Natives…we're tired of that formula they try to jam down our throats.

We Natives…we just live.

_**---Another Bittersweet Moment---**_

I am awakened by the sound of glass shattering. The dream behind my eyes, that sweet tranquility in the deep places beneath my mind, shatters along with the sound. Grumbling under my breath, I know that my cousin, Leon Brokenarrow, is finally home.

Sliding out of bed still half asleep, I drag myself out into the hall where I know I'll find Leon passed out on the yellow wood foyer. Sure enough there's my cousin, long hair tangled and splayed across the floor, a brown hand still clutching the jagged remains of the beer bottle—my handsome, smart, twenty-four-year-old cousin who was supposed to be in college. Who was supposed to _be_ someone someday and make the Diné people proud. Instead, like so many of my friends and family members, he ran over a particularly deep rut in Life's road and gave in to the easiest, most available "solution" here on the reservation: alcohol. It seems I'm the only hope now; I'm one of the few Navajo on the reservation who actually attends college—and intends to finish. It breaks my heart to see my people in ruins, swallowing their sorrows and bitterness in gulps of whiskey, or running down the darkened streets with their half-hearted war cries, stones in hand, vandalism on their minds. Modern day warriors with no purpose. Rage. Hate. Sorrow. Boredom. Loss. Failure.

Forgotten.

A standard of living stuck on survive, yet many of us still manage a smile.

My cousin's an imbecile, no doubt, a college dropout, a womanizer and a drunk; but I clean up the broken bottle, wipe up the spilled alcohol, and manage to heave him onto the tattered couch nearby, which I think used to be made of leather. His clothes reek of beer and cigarette smoke, of forgotten goals and disappointed smiles. Another meaningless hour, another night out with Riley Stone and his posse of vandals. Another bittersweet moment on the reservation, another wisp of a memory to be abandoned. Dear Leon, what have you done? It isn't supposed to be this way.

His mouth and neck are stained with vomit and, to my distaste, smeared also with the waxy remains of crimson lipstick. I wipe these off too. I look down. His belt is missing, and I sigh, shaking my head. I wonder who it was this time. Probably Alexia Green again, that Apache vagabond our tribe had reluctantly adopted. Alexia Green the white wannabe. Alexia Green, pompous and rebellious, who dyed her hair platinum blonde, dark Native skin against Anglo locks. Alexia Green the walking oxymoron. Alexia Green the fool, the ashamed, the blind, the disillusioned.

It's one of the many dilemmas we face: the world of the Native American, or the world of the whites. Some go Alexia's route, some go Leon's, and some go my route, which consists of sparring with Mom or constantly studying my ass off to avoid boozing with my cousins. To avoid falling into that tempting trap of despair.

But seriously, who really wants to read and write and study 24/7? My cousin used to say. _Who needs an education when you got boys and beer_? Leon loves me, but he used to give me shit about it all the time. And look at him now. He's just like his last name: a broken arrow. Lost. Useless.

I stare at my cousin. The right thing to do would be to yell at Leon come morning and kick his sorry ass out into the streets so he would stop freeloading off of my mother's kindness, and stop worrying my aunt sick with his drunken adventures. I should drag him outside right now and let the cold devour him. Maybe then he'd learn something about independence.

But what I do is kiss his sweaty brow, take off his desert-dusted boots, drape an old Navajo blanket over him, and go back to bed. That's what we do, no matter how countless the failures—we look out for each other. For if we lose each other, we lose everything. Without that, without love, we wouldn't be here.

* * *

_**---The Small Things---**_

"_It's hard to be optimistic on the reservation…Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it's almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It's the small things that hurt the most…"_

She remembered the look that the white waitress had given them, like looking at a particularly revolting insect, like inhaling a terrible odor.

"I don't serve Indians," she'd stated simply, removing her apron as she retreated outside to have a smoke.

She remembered the way the white policemen had viciously beaten Leon and his brothers, Karl and Logan, for loitering on "private property"—which had looked an awful lot like a regular public sidewalk. But, nevertheless, all three had returned home with indigo bruises and wounded hearts. The night later reeked of revenge, filled with the deafening rings of war cries and of breaking glass. Anger first, tears later.

She remembered the mascots. Her people had been reduced to mere animals, nameless faces, belittled, mere symbols the whites had branded onto their white sports teams. It's the trend now; it's exotic to be a "red skin."

She remembered how one day it was "chink," and then the next it was "savage." Sometimes it was just the awful, ugly silence, and often that was the worse.

She remembered how Michelle used to cry herself to sleep, shattered heart and salted tears. Not even the fistfights could release the frustration. Why, why, why? It was the only question they knew how to ask, a question they knew had no answer.

Sometimes it was a hard thing, living. Simply living. Surviving.

_**---"You Are Now Entering Navajo Territory…"---**_

"'_What tribe are you, Cousin?'_

'_Cherokee.'_

'_Really? Shit, I've never met a real Cherokee.'_

'_Neither have I.'_

_And they laughed." _

* * *

My friend, Mitch Yas, and his Coyote Boys put up a sign at the entrance of the reservation one day: "You Are Now Entering Navajo Territory. Your American Laws Will Not Protect You Here." I hadn't been able to stop laughing when I saw it. Apparently the tribal leaders thought it was pretty hilarious too 'cause the sign's still up. I just wish I could be there to see the whites shit their pants when their cars break down.

I remember how, one afternoon, Mitch painted his entire face with some cheap acrylic paints of mine, donned some ancient buckskin pants and moccasins from the "good old days", stuffed some bedraggled feathers into his hair, and purchased a rusty tomahawk from Old Cassidy's shop down the road. Boy the whites had a real good time with that one. Tomahawk waving, long hair flying, exaggerated war cry echoing, Mitch, twenty-one and modern as all hell, sneakers and jeans and basketball fiend, reverted back to his "roots"—half naked, teeth gnashing and eyes wild, living out that nice little stereotype the whites had lovingly bestowed upon us. 'Cause you know us Indians: we're uncivilized. We wear feathers in our hair, dance half naked around fires and scalp any helpless white Christian we set our eyes upon.

So what does a poor white man do when he's being assaulted by a ferocious, bored Native kid with fake war paint on? Some manage to smile it off when they see Mitch and his little charade, but most of the times they just feel awkward. Some might take pictures—"Look, Johnny, a real live Indian!"—and give Mitch five bucks to take a photo with them. He'd never smile while they did it though; after all, Indians never smile, or even talk for that matter.

It's all harmless of course, meant only in good fun. Oh, some may call it cruel, but can you blame us? We're bored often, and Caucasians are such easy targets. Besides, it's nothing compared to all the things _they've_ done to _us_.

My thoughts slowly stray from Mitch, as I walk down the interstate, dust clouds erupting beneath my boots, the sun baking the earth vermilion with her 100-degree glare. Up ahead I notice a beat up pickup truck pulled over on the side of the road. It's definitely not one of my tribe; the plate reads "Pennsylvania." Probably just another lost white tourist who missed the exit a couple hundred miles back. Ha, ha. Another stranded fellow. Where's Mitch when I need him?

"Hey! You need help?" I call out as I approach the vehicle.

"Piece of shit!" I hear from within.

The driver emerges from the car, slamming the door shut before delivering a vicious kick into the metal. Well he clearly isn't some white tourist. Lost, maybe, but definitely not white; I admit I'm slightly disappointed. His skin is darker than mine, and his long black hair hangs down to the middle of his back. After a moment he finally notices me standing there and turns, the sunlight catching the gray of his irises. Definitely a Native American face, but not Navajo; the features were a little off.

Yes, most of the times, we Natives can actually _tell_. No, we're not all the same, contrary to what many may think.

"You need help?" I repeat, and the man merely glares. He doesn't look much older than I am.

"Obviously," he replies harshly, and goes around to lift up the hood of the car. Cursing again, this time in his Native tongue, he kicks at the ground, spraying sand and dust into the air as he slams the hood shut. The car sways slightly from the motion, and a girl emerges from the passenger side.

"Jeez, Adam, chill for a second! Just take it easy," she exclaims.

Like her companion, she looks around my age, and, at first glance, definitely looks African American. However, after a closer inspection I detect a few subtle features that reveal the Native American blood in her veins. Is she mixed like me?

"Just beautiful. The car's dead and we're stranded in the middle of the damn desert," the man named Adam growls, fists clenched.

Sighing, the girl turns, acknowledging my presence. I smile politely.

"Hi there. As you can see, we're having some car trouble," she says, hands on hips, "We were heading to a relative's house in California."

I remember the license plate. "Wow, you guys came a real long ways then."

"Yeah, no doubt about that."

"Sorry, but the nearest repair shop is still several miles off," I explain.

The girl sighs, rubbing sweat off the back of her neck. "Then what _can_ we do?"

"Well…" I begin, "If you'd like I could take you guys back to my place. It's not too far, and my mother loves company. I'm sure one of my cousins can take your car into the shop in the next day or so."

Without a glance at Adam, the girl replies with a confident, "Sure." However, unsurprisingly, her companion thinks otherwise.

"Amadahy, what are you do—" he begins to protest, but she silences him with a look.

"Trust me on this one. Besides, what would you rather have us do? Walk fifty miles in this weather?"

Adam sighs but grudgingly relents. He's smart to be wary around strangers, but in this case it's either come with me or perish under the sun. Together the three of us begin the long trek back to my house.

"So what tribe are you guys?" I ask.

"Cherokee," Adam replies with his head held high, sweeping back his long hair. Well he's a proud one all right. At that moment I think about Alexia with her blonde hair and her traitorous, tainted heart. I think about Leon, beer bottle in hand, drunk and dreamless, slandering and mocking the reservation and his own people, and my heart is sad.

"Yeah," the girl says, "but I have some African American in me."

"Cool. I'm mixed too—Chinese and Navajo," I reply, suddenly happier, "And Adam's full blood I presume?"

"Indeed," he answers for the girl, and I smile again.

"This nuisance here is my cousin, Adam," she introduces, "and I'm Amy."

"Not Amadahy?" I say, struggling slightly with the Cherokee pronunciation. I'd heard her cousin call her that earlier.

"Amadahy too, but you know the whites. With 'weird' names like ours, they don't try to make it sound right anyway. Their tongues are lazy so we gotta show them _some_ mercy," she jokes.

I smile, but we all know that it isn't that funny. After all, the whites sure as hell hadn't shown _our _people any mercy. They'd even tried to strip us of our "savage" names once upon a time.

"So, you got a name?" Adam inquires, eyes turning to me.

"I'm Julia," I reply, "and Tainn too."

_**---New Moon---**_

The wind didn't moan like it usually did. Tonight it sang. The fire crackled at her feet, spitting sparks onto the orange earth, her bare toes warmed by the flames. She had not begun to truly believe in the spirit world until this night. Michelle had constantly told her about the spirits, but it wasn't until tonight that she actually felt them. They were with her watching from the trees, from the yucca and the cacti needles, from the desert and the earth herself, from the wind, from the flames of the fire, whispering, sighing, smiling, all around her, everything was alive; she shivered. Small, she felt incredibly small all of a sudden.

Reaching forward into the ashes, her mother removed a handful of the dark substance. With a thumb she smeared the black cinders across her daughter's forehead. Then, after dusting off her hands, she placed a bowl of red paint and a bowl of yellow paint in front of her. Dipping two fingers into the red paint, she carefully smeared a single scarlet streak down one side of Julia's face, and then repeated the action with the yellow paint for the other cheek.

"I am no medicine woman," Michelle murmured once her work was finished, resting back onto her knees, "but I know enough to give you strength. Together with these two halves you are whole, Tainn. Julia. Do not listen to them. Dark or light, red or yellow, we are all the same; we are all sisters and brothers under the same sky. It is because of their fear and their greed that they have forgotten this."

Julia closed her eyes, the heat of the fire searing her skin.

"Remember both. Julia. Tainn. You are the change."

Tainn meant "new moon." People hated change; they would not accept this new moon at first. But change was inevitable. In time they would learn to understand.

Arise, Tainn, arise, arise, arise.

_**---Choices---**_

"You know, Cousin, I think I met you for a reason."

It has been two days since I'd rescued my two Cherokee companions from the scorched desert road. They have made themselves at home here under my roof.

I smile, eyebrows raised. "No, I think you and Amy were just lucky I found you."

Adam shakes his head, sipping his lemonade. We're both sitting on the porch swing of my house staring out into the yard where Leon is attempting (and failing) to dance with Amy.

"No such thing as luck," Adam sighs, wiping sweat off his brow, "everything happens for a reason. It was you who came, you of all people who found us. The spirits meant for that to happen. Everything that happens is because of the spirits."

I sip my lemonade, sighing. "Well, sure, spirits do have a large part to do with it, but…"

Swallowing, I gaze out into the turquoise sky, into the flawed beauty of Arizona's sunburned complexion. I think about the small things. I think about Leon and the white cops, about the names. Savage. Chink. Half breed. Orange. Had the spirits meant for all of that shit to happen too?

"But," I continue, "I think we all still have a choice, Adam. I believe in spirits just as much as you do. But I'd like to believe too that we still have some control over what happens to us, because if we use the spirits to explain everything, then what's the point of even trying? Of seeking something better?"

He nods, closing his eyes. "Yeah, I guess so, Cousin. You do have a point…"

Sitting there, I think more about what Adam said. Sometimes when one feels so powerless to all the chaos and the tears around them, one looks for something to blame, looks for a reason—in this case, the spirits. That way it makes life easier to live. But, suffering or not, we all still have a choice—for _most_ things, if you want—in the end. I hope Amy and Adam realize this.

I begin to doze off, night descending quickly around the reservation, when Adam decides to speak. "Have you ever felt suppressed, Julia? Have you ever felt lost?"

My eyes open, vision slightly blurry, and look at Adam sitting next to me, a haze of indigo and violet in the darkness.

"Well of course. I'm half Native American," I reply, and we both begin to laugh.

But our laughter soon abates. The humor can only last so long when it comes to these things for there's always a touch of truth beneath it all. It's a great coping mechanism, humor, but reality always returns to smack you in the face sooner or later.

We're quiet for a moment. The crickets begin their nightly orchestra. Yellow eyes stare from the black. Things unseen, unknown, alive, roam and seek. I sigh, watching as the canyons open their mouths and vomit an opal moon. Tainn.

Adam shifts in his seat as he says, "I don't even know if there's a relative in California. So, I guess we're just on a permanent road trip."

So they were running away. I wait, deciding to listen and allow Adam to tell his story instead of bombard him with my questions.

The Cherokee man sighs deeply and removes from his jeans pocket a small tube of face paint. He plays with it for a bit, examines the smooth, crinkled contours with his fingers, unscrews the cap, begins to squeeze some of the substance into his palm, decides against it, and then screws the cap back on. I stare at him all the while, thinking how odd it was that he carried around a random tube of face paint, but, again, I keep my silence.

"Somebody called Amy a savage the other day," he murmurs, staring out into the desert as he opens the tube once more. "And the worst part was that she couldn't do a damn thing. Not one thing."

Adam looks at me, eyes narrowed. "It's the small things like that that piss the hell out of me, you know?"

Tell me about it.

He pauses, purses his lips, and finally squeezes out a long strand of paint into his palm. It's too dark to tell what color it is; with two fingers he swipes a thick stripe of it across the bridge of his nose and half of his right cheek. When he looks at me again, his eyes are smoldering, the paint a dark slash of shadow across his skin. Hollow warrior with his modern day war paint; there is something wrong with his spirit.

Hate can corrupt even the most tender of hearts.

"There are so many other things than that, Julia, so many other things," he murmurs, "but I didn't come here to burden you with my life story. I just don't…I don't like feeling like this, Julia. Powerless. Alone. Betrayed. None of us do. None of us deserve any of what's happened."

He pockets his tube of face paint, looking down into his open hands. "But you know what's amazing, Cousin? We're survivors. Native Americans are just born survivors, I guess. So much shit has happened to us, from the Trail of Tears to century old racial slurs at the local gas station. But we're _still here_ somehow. We're still standing."

Adam wipes away the paint on his face, the words spilling forth from his mouth.

"And maybe you're right, Julia, maybe we do all have choices. Amy and I did choose to escape, I guess. It might not have been the best choice, but at least it's a start. At least out here we have freedom. There's something better out there, Julia, I know there is. That's the only reason why I endured all that crap back home, because I knew that, one day, Amy and I were gonna leave it."

I do not have the heart to tell him that he and Amy—that all of us—will continue to face that suppression for the rest of our lives, no matter how far we run, no matter how ardently we resist. But perhaps Adam already knows this and just needs a change of pace, because believe me, anger wears a person down. His hopeful smile is also a nice change from Leon's drunken drabbles and venomous remarks.

"I'm happy for both of you, Adam. But aren't you happy here? Why don't you just stay with my mother and me for awhile? With the Navajo?" I ask, and allow myself to get hopeful.

But, as I had predicted, the Cherokee man shakes his head. "I'm sorry but…we can't, Julia. But we'll visit. I promise."

Saddened but joyful at the same time, I nod. For the rest of the night Adam and I sit on the porch in silence, watching turquoise merge into ebony as night whispered its lullabies. No words are necessary; it seems that we understand each other now.

We must all learn to understand each other. Our lives are woven together after all, into one huge, endless web of lonely and angry hearts, interconnected, intertwined. There is no beginning. There is no end. There is just us. Them. This life and the thousands before and after it.

We must all learn to understand each other. Cherokee or Navajo, African American or Chinese, dark or light, half or whole, we are all brothers and sisters under the same sky.

_**---Forest Water, New Moon---**_

Tainn and Amadahy lay on three layers of Navajo blankets staring up at the night. The wind blew warmth; _ooljee _painted the world silver with her light.

"It's not bad, being a mixed blood," Amadahy whispered, "but at the same time you feel like you want to change everything."

Tainn sighed, shifting on the blanket. "I know. It seems that no matter what you do…"

"…you're screwed over either way."

They both laughed. "Yeah, pretty much. Damned either way," the Cherokee woman stated.

It was hard to be optimistic, hard to laugh, but both women managed to smile in the darkness. It was the small things that were the most painful. Yet it was these other small things that made it all worthwhile at the same time.

"Sometimes you're confused, you know?" Amadahy sighed, "as if being Native American isn't already enough, you gotta be _mixed_ too. Sometimes you feel like you have to choose sides."

"Oh tell me about it," Tainn replied, "you're trapped in between worlds."

"Indeed."

"But sometimes," began the Navajo woman, "sometimes you wouldn't want it any other way."

"Yes…"

Tainn…Julia…Amadahy…Amy…The new moon saw her reflection in the forest water.

It was hard to be optimistic, hard to laugh…but both women managed to smile in the darkness.

_**---The 'End'---**_

Amy and Adam left the following afternoon. They promised to come back sometime to visit, but I doubt that day will come soon; they still have a long ways to go after all. Sometimes it's better to take your time looking forward than to worry about coming back. Otherwise, nothing can be sought, nothing can be accomplished. They left with smiles on their mouths, their dreams in their hands, and with my mother's yellow fry bread in their bellies. Adam, gray eyes, with his hope bottled up in his tube of "war" paint. Amy, dark skin, with her mixed blood, lost and found, proud, frustrated. Strong. Strong. Strong.

They have become another shard within me, another piece to add to my story. One day I will see them again. They have only gone off to continue their own stories; theirs will not end, as mine will not. No, stories never truly end…

I look into the sun, into that treacherous, tranquil desert. I inhale the cacti, the turquoise sky, lick the stars and the coyote howls, listen to the rainfall and ride the lightning. I read my textbooks and let my fists do the talking. I laugh and I weep; I love and I hate. I live. I live. I live.

The spirits sing today. They smile. They tell me it is time to smile, to fill my heart with hopes instead of despair, unlike Leon, unlike Alexia. It doesn't end here, they say; the spirits smile today.

The spirits smile today.

The spirits smile today.

The spirits smile today.

The spirits smile today.

* * *

**Glossary:**

_Amadahy_: forest water (Cherokee)

_Diné_: the Navajo people

_Diné bikéyah_: Navajo country

_Hoozdo Hahoodzo_: Arizona

_Ma'ii:_ coyote

_Ooljee_: moon

_Tainn_: new moon


	3. Scarlet Ibis

Note: So I kind of figured I wouldn't get much feedback for "New Moon," the oneshot before this one…it's complex, there isn't any romance, none of it really relates to the Tekken storyline so, naturally, people ignored it…kinda disappointed, 'cause I worked really hard on that one, but, oh well. At least I managed to move the readers that really mattered, so I'm still happy.

Anyway, to the current fic at hand; I never thought I'd be writing a story about this particular character. When I do use her, she is never the main character and, more often than not, I vilify her due to my own biases. But in this next story I'm changing it up some, due to encouragement from **Thunderxtw**, one of this character's biggest fans. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Scarlet Ibis**

Today she wore the strapless red dress, the one that hugged hips and caressed curves. She stared out into the gray reflection of the sky on the lake. Placid, silent, like the motionless waters, her heart slowed to the rhythm of the gray. Her favorite color was red, the color of passion, the color of rage, of heat and sex and fire and ambition, yet this gray appealed to her somehow. She loved to come here to this nameless and perfect lake which lay miles and miles from the apartment she shared with her sister. She loved it especially after a thunderstorm, when the air was damp and the trees shone black with rain. There was life here, a crisp, raw reality--no pretending allowed. There was a peace she found here at this lake that she had not been able to find anywhere else.

Inhaling deeply, she poisoned herself for the last time (_this_ time was to be her last time, she promised) and then flicked the cigarette away, crushing the flaky remains beneath her heel. Then the silence settled in. Weary, soulless, she'd tried to discard that life long ago, sought something else. She was tired of the sleepless nights and the killings, of the artificial smiles and hatred. Yet the memories enslaved her. The men and the strobe lights and the death and the bitterness and the petty quarrels; they still flocked to her like moths to a flame. She was red after all, a gleaming prize in the dark.

"Hey, sweetie, how much do you charge?"

He had disturbed the tranquility, the lake lost its magic for an instant, and the rage finally burst in her belly. She turned; he was tall, with green, traitorous eyes, sharp as needles and golden teeth; he was smiling, too much confidence and not enough pigment to his skin. Lifeless. He'd give her nothing. A little belly jutted out from his belted jeans, and a gold band glimmered on his left ring finger.

"Go away," she growled, adjusting her dress. "I'm not a prostitute; go find someone else."

"I like them feisty," he murmured, grin widening.

"I said, _go away_. Fuck off."

"Don't worry, babe, I'll be gentle," he sneered, lust gleaming in his irises as he reached for her, one hand at his belt. Flashing him a brief, mocking smile, she swiftly pinned him to the ground in two moves.

"You know, men like you are so predictable," she snarled into his ear, amused. "Now, if you be a good boy, I'll let you go back to the slums so you can lie to your friends how you got lucky. Or--"

The man screamed as her free hand reached down between his legs to his manhood and twisted viciously, red-painted nails gouging. "--you can be difficult, and go home to that poor wife of yours and explain to her why you can't make babies anymore."

She was usually more sophisticated than this; she wasn't as crude or obscene as many liked to believe. She just had too much fire. Too much red. But with men like this scumbag beneath her grip, this was the only way to make them listen.

She allowed for the words to sink in then reluctantly released him. Smirking, she walked to the main road and hailed a cab as her assailant picked his pride up from the ground and shuffled away. It would be awhile until he summoned up enough courage to betray his wife again.

* * *

"Where the hell were you?"

She tossed the stilettos aside and slid out of her dress, exchanging the silken garment for a pair of pajama shorts and tank top. Ignoring the question, she made a beeline for the fridge and grabbed a Coke.

"Answer me, Anna."

Swallow. Sigh. Squeeze back the bitter taste. Bubbles erupting in her throat.

"Don't worry, I didn't kill anyone," she grumbled, downing the last of the drink.

"You better not have. We both agreed not to do that anymore."

"I just broke his balls," Anna murmured under her breath with a smirk, helping herself to a bowl of pomegranate seeds. That was probably near death for a man, she thought with a smile.

Nina reclined on the couch, a bowl of strawberry ice cream between her knees. Jay Leno paced the stage with his nightly monologue. Next door, through the paper thin walls, the German newlyweds were squabbling—again. Somewhere a lone guitar wailed its anguished anthem to the night, amateurish and lovely and annoyingly heartbreaking; Nina turned up the volume on the TV. Outside the wind hissed and moaned, while the fingernails of the trees clawed against the dirt-caked windowpanes. Shadows played in the corners of minds and hearts and danced across the faded wooden crucifix above the doorway. Some said that the cross had lost its power long ago due to the plethora of sins the Williams sisters had brought with them. With no faith in faith in general, the siblings mocked the religious symbol and left it up only to conceal the nasty hole caused by the previous owners. Meaningless and faded, the crucifix was merely a façade to cover up the imperfections and the truths.

But how long could this façade last?

Nina was fine with it. She'd been trained to suppress truth after all. The only truths she knew were the silver edge of Death's blade and the red fury of hatred. She did not long to be different, nor to be forgiven. She wanted to forget and move on, to pretend that nothing had happened. The trail of blood she'd left behind meant nothing to her, and it wasn't because of her failure to remember. Nina simply did not care.

Anna was a different story. She'd never enjoyed the kill as her sister had. She'd killed only because there'd been no other way. She'd hated only because no love would be given. And now she was waning.

* * *

The lipstick felt like wax on her lips; it didn't feel right. Nothing felt right. It tasted sweet, ironically, like cherry cough syrup, like half-hearted pleasures and insignificant promises. Like suppression, like femininity, like power and seduction and dirty sheets. Stifling, sticky, it sealed her lips shut. She tried to open her mouth to lick away the sweet, artificial taste; she'd been trying to get rid of that taste her whole life.

Promiscuous. Tainted. Slut. Nothin' special. Her fists clenched. Look good and speak with your body, not your heart. It's all you are. It's all they see. Sugar-coated boys past midnight, fishnets and vodka and shame, Chinese silk threaded in gold and jade; for everything you are to blame. Lost, wild, impetuous, you're just another nameless face, just another good time. It's all you are. It's all they see. Her fists clenched.

Maybe she'd been all those things. Maybe not. But did they witness the sleepless nights afterwards, the gnawing guilt and the satin tears? The endless wishing for something more? Because she was more, so much more, and they refused to acknowledge it.

She didn't like how things were. She wanted change, wanted someone to listen, but she was a flaw on society's canvas, and that made her dangerous. A nameless paint color, a vibrant, violent shade that people feared and desired; she could not, _would_ not, be tamed by the brush, and for that she was alone, a red hue against the gray world. Too much red in a painting was distracting after all, and darker, commoner hues were added to subdue it. Only thing was, she never wanted to be subdued. She wanted to be seen, truly seen, as a scarlet ibis among the crows rather than as an accepted misunderstanding or a generic answer to a difficult question.

So she found herself at the lake again. Tossing her red heels aside, she removed her red dress, shedding the scarlet until she was pale and bare and plain. Plunging headfirst into the water, she surrendered herself to the cold, to the steel ice of the murky depths. Closing her eyes and swallowing her breath, she felt the long fingers of the water caress her skin, breasts and belly, thighs and toes, mouth and nose and hair and arms, sending shivers undulating through her body. She made love to the gray, let it eat away at the scarlet, at the red heat inside of her. Tightening, choking, it squeezed the fire from her heart, instilled it with a mute cold, and she knew she was dying but smiled and didn't try to stop it. It felt good to feel nothing.

She was tired of the anger, of the memories and the senseless violence, of the sibling rivalry and of the pretending. Sometimes she even wanted to be cold and gray because it seemed easier, easier not to care. Cold and gray and emotionless like Nina, who seemed to be made of ice these days. Yet she wanted to be appreciated for those scarlet hues too. A heart of contradictions. Opening her mouth underwater, she screamed, but all she got was a mouthful of lake. Choking, she realized her mistake; it wasn't supposed to be this way. The fire was almost gone. The scarlet ibis struggled against the gray.

Breaking free, she gulped in the air and scrambled for the shore. It felt good to feel again. It felt good to be red. Gasping in the mouthfuls of air, she felt the heat surge to her heart, her belly and muscles and throat. Clutching at her clothes, she closed her eyes and cried out, a shrill shriek that sliced through the silence and through that clean, placid, perfect lake, that lake which had nearly taken her life—yet at the same time given her a new one. _A crisp, raw reality—no pretending allowed_. A smile molded its away across her mouth; she knew what she wanted. Dressing herself, Anna went home to her sister.

* * *

She wrapped herself in silence as she entered, and was reminded of how she used to hunt this way. Silence was an assassin's best weapon. Nina gave a startled jump when she saw her younger sibling standing in front of the door, red dress clinging to her body, water dripping in steady streams onto the carpet.

"You're soaking wet," Nina commented dryly.

Anna didn't say a word.

"What happened to you?" inquired the blonde, slightly worried now.

True, her sister had been awfully silent for the past few months, but Nina had paid no attention until now. "Did you try to kill yourself?" Nina persisted, more of a curiosity rather than a genuinely caring remark.

Nina took a step towards Anna, but her sister recoiled and, leaping up, tore the crucifix from the wall and flung it away. Nina, perplexed, watched as the faded old thing broke in half as it smashed against the wall. The hole above the doorway was now exposed, an ugly, jagged, gaping wound. Glancing at it briefly, Nina realized that she'd nearly forgotten how serious the damage really was.

"What do you see when you look at me, Nina?" she asked softly, and her voice was unnervingly calm. Her hair was soaked and plastered to her face, her eyes enflamed and wild.

For the first time in her life Nina was afraid of her younger sister.

"What?"

"It's a simple question. _What do you see when you look at me_?"

Nina found herself speechless. What kind of answer was her sister seeking?

Anna bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, and it was as if something had been broken all over again. The crucifix seemed to mock her from its place on the ground, tempted her to join it in its sad and shattered state; Anna looked away. She may have allowed herself to fade, but she'd promised herself never to break.

She tried again. "What do you see when you look at all of _this_? Are you happy, Nina? I mean truly? With this fake lifestyle and these fake promises of forgiving and forgetting?"

"Anna, listen to me—" Nina began, but her sister wouldn't allow it.

"No, _you_ listen. You might be able to just push it all away as if it never happened, but me, Nina, I remember. I remember everything. Every life I took, every fight, Da's death, the way you refused to let Steve, your own fucking son, into your heart, the way you used to look at me with hate, the way you still look at me with hate, the way I hated too—I remember! I can't just pretend it never happened, I can't just let it all go!"

And the red engulfed her. She fell back against the wall and sighed, overwhelmed, liberated, and waited for something. Waited…

"Please stop pretending, 'cause it's not all ok, it really isn't," she whispered, and her hands trembled as she clutched at her dress, blinded by its color. "I remember when you used to be better. I remember a different me. I remember better days…where'd it all go? Where'd it all go?"

This was not the fiery, promiscuous sister Nina had thought she knew and, for the first time in her life, Nina admitted that she'd been wrong about Anna. For the first time, she realized just how cruel it all had been. How disillusioned. And, as Anna continued to stare up into the emptiness, waiting, Nina went to her. Her sister's body was slender, strong and firm, the physique of a fighter, but at that moment she was frail, drained, fragile, and Nina clung to her, afraid she would lose her again if she let go.

But she was warm still. She pulsed. The scarlet thrived yet.

The blonde held her sister against her body, rocked her back and forth as a mother would its distraught child, and she felt Anna's red heat as her own. It flowed between them, free, unbridled, fierce, like the cold currents in that lake, surged between them like the blood that flowed in their veins. Something had been remade. For the first time, they felt something like remorse. Something like love. For the first time, Anna returned her sibling's embrace without fear.

No eyes of hatred. No words of venom. No vengeance or sleepless nights. No pretending. Just something pure for once, something they wanted to believe was love. Something they wanted to believe was the beginning steps to forgiveness and to a long forgotten dream of a second chance.

"I see you, my sister. I see you."


	4. Runaway

This story has been on my mind for months (as usual), and I finally managed to spit it out. At the last minute, I decided to connect it with one of my multi-chapter stories. Enjoy. ~_Sage

* * *

_

**Runaway**

Whenever the bad dreams came, Mãe always hummed my favorite lullaby, warm and low in her throat.

With the remaining tendrils of nightmares still clinging to the edges of my imagination, I would lie there trembling and at the mercy of my mind. All _Mãe _had to do was hum that tune and all was all right. Whenever something bad happened, whenever I was scared, Mama always hummed. There was magic in her song, peace in the notes of each chord, like the smooth trail of her fingertips down the side of my face.

She was humming that lazy lullaby on that ripe and sweltering afternoon when the bullet exploded through her cheek.

Mãe was on the sink. Mãe was on the floor. Mãe was on my dress and on my hands.

The air smothered my lungs, filled my throat and mouth with a heady mixture of the smell of Mama's blood and the fresh mangoes she'd been peeling. The world spun; I couldn't breathe. Outside the bullets kept coming, pelting the houses around us with a fierce and insistent _thwip thwip thwip_, screams and war cries filling the sky. An earthquake shook the ground beneath my feet, a low growl stirring from the black depths of the earth, erupting through the white stones—or perhaps that was a growl from the black depths of the human heart, and the shaking ground merely the quake of my life collapsing around me.

As the blood pooled around Mãe's shattered form, I could still hear her humming. The lullaby lingered, floated into the heat and suffocated. It had lost its healing powers.

I was seven. It was my birthday. This time the nightmare didn't go away.

Father started crying and cursing Mama's murderers, his skin and shirt crimson with her blood. A second bullet struck _Pai _in the chest, and another through his throat, silencing his futile shrieks of grief and fury. Pai slumped to the kitchen floor alongside my mother—pai, my strong father, broken as a felled palm tree.

Another gang shootout. Another innocent life taken. Another normal day in the _favela_ that I called home.

There was no time for tears. I did the only thing I could do. I ran.

* * *

It's been thirteen years since my parents were murdered. I don't remember any birthdays before that one. I just know that my world has never been the same.

For a year I wandered the narrow alleyways and the blackened, trash-littered mud roads, scrambling for food and shelter. Though orphaned, I wasn't a dumb kid. These streets were my playgrounds and these stones my best friends. I knew who to avoid, how to talk and act and walk, how to run, how to hide, and, most importantly, how to fight. Fight flowed in my veins just as strongly as blood.

I was a small girl child so people paid me no mind. Had I been older, I might have been recruited into prostitution. Or maybe I was just so small and so well hidden that the pimps never found me.

As of now, I live with my _avô_ and one of his Capoeira students, Eddy Gordo. Avô lived in São Paolo, but moved to this favela in Rio when he heard of my parents' death. It took him awhile to find me, but when he did, he threw me into the river, scrubbed my dirty flesh raw, rubbed my skin through with avocado oil, and returned to me my pride and strength through Capoeira.

I don't think my parents' death really registered in my head until years later. A short-term memory saves you here. Linger too long on pain, on tragedy and bitterness, and you've already lost. You must learn to have a face of stone, but that doesn't have to apply to your heart. That pain, those memories…they will always be there, but you must reserve it for another time. You can always return to your grief and your anger when everything else has been taken from you. It might even keep you alive. I know it worked wonders for me.

Rio de Janeiro is a beautiful, scarred city, pockmarked and raped several times over by whoever feels like using her. It is my city, a violent, lovely, marred, perfect city. It's ashen walls, slicked with blood and lies and jagged graffiti hold the memories of my childhood. Its streets, lined with sweat and fear and shadow, have seen and known more than you can imagine. I sleep to the lullaby of gunshots and fucking, to the moans of the weak and to the triumphant laughter of the cunning. I wake and walk to indigo nights of shattered innocence and sardonic humor, to green bliss and diamond rings, to the incandescent, drug-induced visions and to the screams of broken hope and stolen dreams.

Poverty sleeps in every shadow, in every corner and in every grimy window. Pain is my best friend, pleasure my lover, life my game.

In Rio you're not allowed any breaks. Reality always returns to kick you in the ass should you stray—should you aspire and try to run away. As a child you learned quickly that there's no such thing as innocence. But it kept you alive and around here that's the most important thing.

The mere act of being alive is a rebellion.

Who in the hell would want to keep on living in a place like this, you wonder. I wonder that every day. It's so easy to die around here. It's so easy to fall into despair. It's so _ugly_. But it's that fragility that makes it beautiful, just like everything else you can't have. It's also the only world that we _favelados _know. So we _cariocas _make do with what we are given—which is nothing.

How do you create something out of nothing?

You name it I've done it. Stolen, hustled, dealt drugs, gotten high, gotten wasted, fucked for money, fucked for the fuck of it, fought and won, fought and lost—lived.

I'm not a bad person. I just know what I need to do to survive and sometimes that requires bad things. It requires multiple personalities. In the slums of Rio de Janeiro, if you don't learn fast you die. Outsiders don't realize that the rules here are different. People come here all the time and try to clean up the place, try to save us poor_ favela_ kids and stop the gangs and the drug trafficking. They think they know us better than we know ourselves.

This place isn't in your travel brochure. That Rio with the white powder sand and sunsets like melted gold, that 'hood with glittering hotels and beautiful Brazilian bodies waxed with pineapple oil, exists. The annual flood of tourists and the wealthy getting wealthier is proof of that. But it's also a lie, an intricate masquerade. The sequins and ribbons and feathers and velvet brochures don't reveal the pockmarked and burned face behind the mask.

I'm thankful for my life, for making it this far in one of the most dangerous places in Brazil. But I know I deserve better.

As far as I know, I am the best female Capoeirista in Rio. Fighting helps me survive; people respect—even fear—me. Without Capoeira, I'd probably be in the sex industry or in a gang fighting over scraps and making money off of people's weakness.

But, most importantly, Capoeira keeps me good.

* * *

We take refuge in Gustavo's bedroom. A faded Picasso poster adorns the cracked and mold-stained walls, along with the yellowed pages of newspaper clippings, and the lewd mosaics of naked women torn from stolen porn magazines. Bob Marley albums and American music is scattered about the room. The tattered, floral-patterned couch we recline upon has seen many years and has cradled many vagabonds; the curtains, riddled with moth holes and bullet holes alike, fail to mute the sunlight; and the carpet has stains, but it's a cozy little hideaway for crazy rogues like us.

All six of us sit there and laugh and tell our war stories, getting high as shit during the process, because we're all just "a bunch of street cockroaches who have nothing better to do." At least, that's what Eddy says. These "street cockroaches" just happen to be my friends. Eddy's one of the most humble and down-to-earth men I know, but he puts on the façade of an elitist for my sake. He knows that I'm better than these streets, and that my "good looks" and my fighting prowess are wasted here. But, his antics only annoy me, and I disregard everything he says. Yes, I hate Rio and what it's done to my family and me, but this is the only place I've ever called home.

Today Felipe managed to scrape up enough money for some cheap pot, while Aislara, sister to one of the most powerful drug lords in Rio, brought some free cocaine. I don't do drugs, nor do I drink; I've tried it all before, so I know too well how much it hinders my focus. I can't practice Capoeira with my senses in the clouds. So I sit there in Gustavo's room and laugh at my silly friends.

"Come on, Christie, try some of this," Gustavo urges, blowing smoke out his nose. "I see stars in your hair! Have you gone to the moon and left us behind? Shame on you!"

"Yo man, lay off mah sister," Aislara purrs, ducking her head to snort a line of coke. "She need to keep a clear head. She gone' keep that Capoeira body _saudável _so she can defend yo skinny ass when you fuck shit up again."

"_Vai-te foder_," Gustavo snarls, and the room erupts into laughter. "More like so she can keep a clear head while Sevastian fucks her blind."

Sevastian smacks Gustavo upside the head, but the boy's so high he doesn't even feel it. I don't overlook the light blush that creeps over Sevastian's cheeks; across the room our eyes meet. That Sevastian is pure Brazilian gold; he's the handsomest of our little posse, the soul of Rio herself, with his smooth, bronzed skin, dark gray eyes and sinewy arms. He's definitely a good lay, and I've had him plenty. But it doesn't mean anything. Love is dangerous in Rio.

"'Tavo man, you're just jealous you can't get any girls," Felipe says, snatching the joint from Gustavo. "Especially one as fine as Christie."

We continue this kind of banter for hours, laughing over nothing and fighting over nothing, just a handful of lost souls trying to get through another day.

"You're gonna leave us one day."

The room quiets. Yesenia, with her long midnight hair and even blacker eyes, pierces me with her lazy but notoriously fierce gaze.

"Why would you say that, Yesenia? I love you all. I would never abandon you. Even if I leave, which I've done before, I'll always come back," I say, ardently believing in my words.

The girl smirks, twining and untwining her fingers in a nervous fidget. Of us all, Yesenia is the most unpredictable, the most violent—and also the most accurate in her seemingly farfetched predictions.

"One day you won't," she states with finality before snorting a line that Aislara passes to her.

"Senia," I begin to protest, but my friend seizes me into a hug and presses me close to her breast.

"No, my sister, no you will not," she whispers into my hair. "We are doomed here. You find that chance to get out, and you take it. Fight. Win. _Eu não quero que você volte_—I don't want you to come back."

* * *

"Eddy, where's Avô?"

"At the beach, where else?"

"What! But he's so sick! How could you let him go out—"

"Look, the old man wouldn't take no for an answer. You know how he is. I think some sun will do him good anyways."

Scowling, I open the windows, fanning out the stench of lavender incense and coconut oil. Our little shack reeks of the exotic fumes; as sweet smelling as they are, they easily become intoxicating and suffocating in such a cramped space.

"I thought I told him not to leave all these incense burning. One day I'm going to come home to a pile of ashes," I gripe, hating but secretly adoring my grandfather's careless habits.

"Serves this hell hole right."

I shoot Eddy a glare and give his dreadlocks a playful tug. He swats at my hand in irritation.

"Don't say that," I retort. "At least we have one another. At least we have Avô."

"Yeah, yeah," my burly friend grumbles, shoving the rest of his textbooks into his bag. "I'm off to class. Don't do anything stupid."

"I'm a big girl now, _imão_, you know that."

"That never stops those hood rats from trying to hurt you," Eddy retorts, his face darkening. "I don't get why you hang out with those idiot favelados. _Você é muito forte. Muito inteligente_—you're too strong. Too smart."

I laugh in response, throwing Eddy his jacket. "Hey now, fool, don't forget that we're favelados too. We ain't better than anyone else."

"Yes we are," he smirks, flinging me an envelope.

"What's this?" I ask, reopening the letter.

"Just read it."

I scan the letter quickly then meet Eddy's eyes.

"If we enter this time…if either you or I win…"

The Brazilian man nods. "It's a small shot, since Kazama will probably win again. But…if we do somehow pull it off, we could use the money to find a cure for your grandfather's sickness. He could spar with us again, walk tall along those damn beaches again."

Eddy and I look at each other a long while, thinking. Tears well up in my eyes, and I allow that dreaded sickness to enter my heart: hope.

"When do we leave?"

* * *

Yesenia was right.

I did leave. I did fight. But this time I am not going back.

Grandfather is dead. I failed him. Eddy insists that it isn't my fault, but it is, it really is. That tournament had been my one chance, a little street cockroach, to redeem myself and to save the person closest to my heart. Defeat means inadequacy, but it also means that I would never again hear my avô laugh or speak. I would never again be able to spar barefooted with him on the beach as the scarlet clouds swallowed the sun.

It means another earthquake, another time when my world would collapse and change forever. Another bullet through the cheek. Another lost lullaby and lingering nightmare.

For the first time since my seventh birthday, I cried for my parents. I cried for Grandfather. I cried for Eddy, who I would be abandoning for the next who knew how many years. And I cried for Gustavo, Aislara, Sevastian, Felipe and Yesenia, whom, crazy and impulsive as they were, had kept me sane for thirteen years.

"Where will you go Christie?" Eddy asks.

"America. I heard there are jobs there. Possibilities, you know?"

"You can't run forever, Christie. You were born to fight."

"I thought you told me that I was better than this place. That I deserved more. And now, when I have the chance to get out, you're saying that I am 'running' from my problems?" I snarl, turning to face him.

Eddy only sighs, knowing he had already lost.

"Then go, Christie. Go. I hope you find what you're looking for."

A week later, I find myself scrounging for employment and living in an apartment in conditions not much improved from those in Rio. But it's a start, and I know that I will find a way. If I had found my way in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, then I can do anything here. The sad thing is that it rains a lot here in the spring, and there is no beach in sight. There are no other Capoeiristas to practice my martial arts with.

I fear that Capoeira will lie forgotten within me as I focus too hard on surviving. But I will _not_ abandon it. I must find a way to weave it back into my life.

"Hey there."

Startled, I turn to see a man standing next to me, a bright smile on his face. His dark eyes seem kind, gentle.

"Hi," I greet, suddenly becoming shy. He's very attractive.

"I see you're standing in front of _Gabriel's_, my favorite bar. Do you dance?"

It's an odd inquiry between strangers, but I reply, "Yes, I do…in a way. Is _Gabriel's _some sort of strip club? 'Cause I'm not into that kind of thing."

"Oh no, no. Gabe and Tiffany are looking for real talent here. I think they're hiring right now. You wanna check it out?"

"Yes!" I exclaim a bit too jubilantly, and the man flashes me an odd look.

"Sorry, I'm just super excited," I explain, trying in vain to calm down. "It's just that I'm new here, and I've been looking everywhere for a job."

"I guess it was meant to be then!" the man says with a grin as he extends his hand. "I'm Sam."

"Christie."

"Do you, ah, wanna get a cup of coffee afterward or something?"

"Coffee sounds great."

* * *

**Portuguese/English Glossary**

Mãe: mother

Pai: Father

Avô: grandfather

Favela: slum

Favelados: people who live in the slums

Cariocas: residents of Rio de Janeiro

Imão: brother

Saudável: healthy

Vai-te foder: fuck you


End file.
